Paul and Lucy Spadoni periodically live in Tuscany to explore Paul’s Italian roots, practice their Italian and enjoy “la dolce vita.”
All work is copyrighted and may not be reprinted without written permission from the author, who can be contacted at www.paulspadoni.com

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Linda’s unhappy biking tale turns out to be blessing in disguise for all

Linda gets off the train in Pescia

May 2014My sister is a master story teller. No one who knows her
well would oppose that statement. She doesn’t just tell children’s stories, although
she’s great at that. She also tells stories about the interesting things that
have happened to her, and she does a marvelous job at this as well. She’s not
technically a professional story teller, although that can be debated, since
she was an elementary school teacher for much of her life and thus was paid
while she told stories to her students.

Since story telling is so much a part
of her nature, it seemed a bit cruel to take her to a foreign country where she
couldn’t speak the language well enough to tell any stories. But that’s what
happened when Linda visited us in Italy for three weeks in late April and early
May.

Of course, she could tell her stories to me and Lucy, but
we’ve heard most of them (sometimes more than once, but I don’t stop her from
repeating them). In Italy, she met many cousins on both the Spadoni and
Seghieri sides of the family, but since few of them speak English and her
Italian is limited to about a hundred words, she had to bottle up her stories
She was stuck with amusing things to say and no way to express them except a
few words and some sign language. She could tell Ivo that he had a “buon
cuore,” a good heart, and that she enjoyed the fried snails he prepared for us
and the sweet wine he gave us, but we could sense her frustration with not
being able to say more. I could relate: I had lived through the same experience
for the past three winters here. Finally this year I could communicate reasonably
well enough to feel comfortable conversing with my Italian relatives. A couple
of times I even said something clever or funny enough in Italian to make people
smile or laugh—an important milestone by my reckoning.

A smiling Linda mounts the bike for the first time.

Finally, when something extremely story-worthy happened to Linda
as she tried to ride a bike along Via Mattonaia, the need to tell about it
became so strong that she broke the language barrier, spending hours on Google
Translate and enlisting my help to write down what had happened so she could
read it to our relatives. She would show it to me to smooth out the phrasing,
and just when we thought she was done, she would go back to the dictionary to
add more details. I’m sure my corrections were imperfect, but I knew that a
little awkward wording along with Linda’s accent would just add to the charm,
so I didn’t sweat the details.

Unfortunately, the first time she had a chance to tell it we were with Enrico Spadoni and his family, who had invited us over for an authentic
pizza dinner at their house. Linda had borrowed the bike from Gilda Seghieri, the
padrona of the Casolare dei Fiori
agristurismo. Because Linda was writing the story for Gilda, she hadn’t thought
to bring it along to the dinner. Thus she told it from memory, a little bit in
Italian, quite a bit with gestures and pantomime, but mostly in English with me trying to translate. We did an adequate job, but Linda
knew that next time she would need to be more prepared.

Linda gives a dramatic reading to Gilda.

That chance came when Francesca Seghieri and her mother
Dosolina paid us a visit in our apart-ment. They were about to leave when Linda
pulled out the story and this time read it with polish and dramatic expression,
even if she did mispronounce a handful of words. This time her audience was
more impressed, as were Lucy and I.

Finally, on our last full day in Italy, we called Gilda away
from her

Gilda shows her appreciation for the story.

kitchen at the agriturismo and sat her down in our apartment. Linda
did a masterful job, and Gilda smiled and laughed throughout, although she did feel the need to apologize for the trouble Linda had encountered with the borrowed
bike. We assured her that the problems were not her fault and that they had
actually been the highlight of the trip for Linda, in a backwards sort of way. Without
the unfortunate bike experience, Linda would have lacked a great story to tell
her relatives, both in Italy and when she returned to America. “I told Gilda grazie
mille,” Linda said, “and said that it was an experience I would never forget, that it
would be a good memory of my visit, and it would be a great story to tell
people when I got back home.”

And for Lucy and me, it also
helped us feel more a part of our extended Italian family. Despite having lived
at the Casolare dei Fiori for portions of four years, we had never really had
an extended conversation with Gilda or shared any of our experiences in detail with her. Laughing
together with her advanced our relationship more in those five minutes than the
previous ten months we had lived in San Salvatore.

Here is the English version of Linda’s story, as she
provided it to me in writing later:

Paul and Lucy had an extra bicycle, but it was too big for
me. Gilda told Paul she would provide a bike and she
brought it to the Casolare. She said
it had been her mother’s and that her mother had been a short person, so she thought
I’d be able to ride that bicycle. It did seem to be the right size, so after
Paul adjusted the seat, I tried it out. It was different from bikes I’d ridden
before—it had hand brakes, and the handlebars were straight across rather than
curved.

"This is not the woman from my past."

Here is the story of the bicycle and me. Most of it is true.

On Monday I got on the bicycle and followed Paul and Lucy
down the road. The bicycle thought, “This is not the woman from my past. She is
not even Italian! She is not the woman I want riding on me! IF SHE DOESN’T GET
OFF, I WILL PUT HER IN THE DITCH!”

(The valley had been a vast wetland, and ditches had been dug
to drain it, so the narrow lanes had deep ditches on both sides with varying
amounts of water depending on whether it had rained recently.)

I didn’t know that the bicycle was unhappy, just that it was
hard to keep the pedals going around unless I pedaled fast, and when I went
fast, it was hard to go straight. I didn’t realize that the bike wanted me to
get off, and when I didn’t, it followed through with its plan, took me to the
side of the road and put me in the ditch. I didn’t know why the bike did it,
but there I was, upside down in the ditch.

Paul and Lucy returned quickly and helped me out of there. I
picked up the bike and walked it back home. I told Paul that I wished he’d
taken a picture of me, and he replied that he had thought about it but decided
it was more important to get me up and find out if I was hurt. I was muddy and
wet, but I wasn’t hurt, and he did take a picture of me with the bike, which
I’m sure was quite satisfied with itself.

Linda adds some dramatic expression,
but the mud stains are real.

On Tuesday I tried again, but it ended the same way—although
at least this ditch was dry. I waited for Paul to get there and take a picture,
but this time he didn’t have his camera!

I told the bike, “OK, now I understand. You and I are not to
be together. I will leave you in peace with your memories of the woman from
your past.” The bike and I walked back to the house one last time. We said
good-bye.

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About Me

First off, before you hassle me about our title, Lucy thought of it. Yes, I know some people may think broad is derogatory, but the etymology is uncertain and she doesn’t find it offensive, and it made me laugh. We have been married since 1974 and are empty-nesters now, which allows me to bring my submerged Italophilia into the open. We first came to live in Italy from February-April in 2011 and have returned during the same months every year. From 2011-2015, we lived in San Salvatore, at the foot of the hilltop city Montecarlo, where my paternal grandparents were born, raised and, in 1908, married. In late 2015, we bought a home in Montecarlo. We come for a variety of purposes: We want to re-establish contact with distant cousins in both Nonno’s and Nonna’s families, we want to learn the language and see what it is like to live as Italians in modern Italy, we like to travel and experience different cultures. Even if we aren’t successful at achieving these purposes, we love Italy and enjoy every moment here, so there is no chance we will be disappointed. I am grateful to God for giving me a wife who is beautiful, clever, adaptable and willing to jump into my dreams wholeheartedly.